


No Harm Done

by Warp5Complex_Archivist



Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: Drown Malcolm Reed Month, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-01
Updated: 2007-12-01
Packaged: 2018-08-16 06:59:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8092195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Warp5Complex_Archivist/pseuds/Warp5Complex_Archivist
Summary: Reed waits, and remembers water.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Kylie Lee, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Warp 5 Complex](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Warp_5_Complex), the software of which ceased to be maintained and created a security hazard. To make future maintenance and archive growth easier, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but I may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Warp 5 Complex collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/Warp5Complex).

'You saved his life.'

I look up at the voice, reacting to the sound, the meaning not really penetrating. Captain   
Archer is hovering uncertainly in the shuttlepod's hatch. He climbs in and takes the couple of   
steps that bring him to the bench where I'm sitting. I think he's going to sit next to me, but he   
hesitates, and I turn my head to see what the problem is â€“ more to avoid looking him in the   
eye than anything. I wish he'd go away; I don't want to have to talk, to think about what   
happened. 

Of course; the seat is wet. Actually, that's an understatement; the bench is sodden, and   
there's a growing pool of water around my feet. My boots are ruined: the realisation almost   
tips me over the edge, even as I tell myself it doesn't matter. Nothing matters now, not until I   
know.

Despite my wish to be left alone, I find myself putting my towel on the seat, patting it as if   
encouraging a dog or a child. I get lost in wondering where the towel came from, and I've   
just decided Phlox must have given it to me when I'm dragged back to the present as Archer   
speaks again.

'You saved his life.'

He sounds surprised. That amuses me and I laugh. At least, it was meant to be a laugh, I   
think, but even to my ears it sounds more like a sob. 

'I didn't know you could swim.'  
Now I do look at him, puzzled, but the fear and concern in his eyes makes me look away   
again. Didn't I tell him, that time on the hull, that I spent most of my early years on the   
water? He doesn't think my parents would have allowed that if I couldn't swim, does he?  
My parentsâ€¦ I find myself drifting into memories. They're not exactly pleasant, but   
anything's better than the here and now, and I let myself be swept along in the flow.

 

'That's it, Malcolm. You're doing fine.'

I'm six years old, and I'm swimming a length for the first time. Father is walking away from   
me, backwards, down the pool, and I'm swimming after him. I concentrate on getting the   
stroke right, and on remembering to breath, and just a little bit on keeping the water out of my   
eyes because the chlorine makes them sting. I know we're getting to the deep end because   
Father is floating now, not walking, using his arms to keep himself moving backwards.

The Patterson twins, Josh and Alec, are messing about on the poolside at the end I'm   
swimming towards. They're in my class, but they're bigger than me. Well, just about   
everyone in my class is bigger than me, but these two are older; they missed their first year of   
school when their mum was posted to Luna, and now they're back on Earth they've been kept   
back a year to make up. 

I don't think they like me much, and I usually keep out of their way, but today I don't care   
that they're watching. Father is home for a month, and he said if I can swim a length he'll   
take me to the Imperial War Museum.

I pass the red tiles on the pool's edge that mean I've done three-quarters of a length. Father   
says, 'Good boy,' and I let myself smile.

I see Josh grab hold of his brother's arm and swing him around, towards the water. Alec is   
laughing, and at the last moment, just when he's going to fall into the water, he turns it into a   
jump, curling into a ball and plummeting into the pool with a tremendous splash. It doesn't   
matter that he's in the deep end, because he can swim well. 

Josh jumps in too, and a big wave of water surges towards me. Father has his back to it, but I   
can see it coming, and I just know it's going to push me under. I stop swimming, and try to   
call out to Father, That's a mistake, because when the wave arrives it goes in my mouth, and   
up my nose, and in my eyes. Even though I can't see, I know I'm underwater, and I start to   
panic because I don't know which way is up.

Suddenly I feel strong arms around me, and I'm lifted out of the water and onto the cold   
tiles. It's Father, and I can see that he's angry. At first I think he's angry with the twins, but   
then he says, 'Silly boy. You should have just kept going.'

Mrs. Patterson comes over, shouting at the twins, and apologising to Father.

'No harm done,' Father says. 'Malcolm's fine, aren't you, son?'

I stop coughing long enough to say, yes and thank you for asking to Mrs. Patterson, but all I   
can think of is that, 'no harm done'.

 

I'm sitting at the dining table reading one of Father's naval history books; I'm allowed to read   
them without asking first, but only at the table so I don't damage them. This is a new book,   
'Naval Disasters of the Twenty-first Century'. I start as I always do, turning the pages to look   
at the pictures, when a name jumps off the page at me â€“ Alistair Reed. That's my uncle's   
name, and as I read it dawns on me that the person in the book is his father, my great-uncle. I   
think I'd always known he died at sea, but it was something no one talked about, at least not   
when I was around. I suppose they thought the story was too frightening for a ten-year-old. 

They were right. 

Mum always said I had a fertile imagination, and that it was both a blessing and a curse. I'd   
never really understood what she meant by that, until now. My great-uncle was a hero, and I   
was proud to read about him, but when I got to the part about him shutting himself in the   
boat's engine room, knowing he would drown, I started imagining what he must have felt and   
thought, and it was as if the water was creeping up around me. I imagined wet clothes   
making my movements awkward and water rising up to fill my mouth and nostrils, and the   
rainbow shimmer of oil on its surface, the last beautiful thing I would ever see. 

I put the book back in the glass-fronted bookcase, and never took it out again. I didn't tell   
anyone I'd read it, but the images my mind had painted stay with me still: I think this is when   
I first began to be afraid of drowning.

 

Boarding school was both a scary and a liberating place. I still got picked on for being small,   
and for not being good at games. Did I hate games because I wasn't any good at them, or   
was it the other way around? I can't remember. But rugby, hockey, cricket; they were all   
torture to me. Sport though, that was another thing altogether; sport I was good at. Middle-  
distance running, martial arts, boxing and swimming â€“ those I enjoyed.

There was a pool in the school grounds; not large enough to be called a lake, but river-fed,   
clear and in places quite deep. It was out of bounds to the younger boys, but those seniors   
who were good swimmers were allowed to use it. 

There was a group of us who used to hang around together; Francis, Jamie, Tony, Chris, Paul   
and me. As with any group of boys, there was a lot of more or less good-natured leg-pulling   
and name-calling. It was Jamie who first christened me Stinky, for reasons that are best not   
dwelt on; but they were my gang, and I felt comfortable with them. I liked Paul best, and   
thought of him as my best friend. I used to try and do what I thought he'd like, agree with   
his ideas and such. With hindsight, I probably had a crush on him. Tony and Francis used to   
poke fun at me about it when Paul wasn't around, but I just laughed them off.

That Saturday was one of the first days of spring term it had been warm enough to swim in   
the pool. We were all there, swimming, or just mucking about in the water, and basking on   
the warm grass with sandwiches we'd begged from the kitchen. As usual, some of us had   
taken books in a half-hearted attempt at study. I had my nose in an engineering manual when   
Tony chucked his book over at me with a demand that I read a passage out loud to Paul,   
whose hands were too wet. I knew from experience that it was best just to do it and hope   
they got bored. It was only when I'd read the first few lines that I realised it was a love   
poem. I faltered, and I expect I blushed, and all the rest of them fell about laughing, Paul   
included. Determined not to let them see I cared, I started again and read the poem through.   
Then I made my excuses with as much dignity as I could, and went back in the water. 

When Paul swam out to join me and said, 'It's just a joke, Stinky, don't take it to heart,'   
somehow that just made it worse. 

 

I can honestly say that I loved my time at Starfleet Training Centre. I was in my element   
there, doing a job I loved, respected for my abilities, encouraged to stretch myself. Weapons,   
self-defence, tactics, survival training, zero-g training; I loved it all. Well, apart from the   
zero-g, and I was enjoying that until I threw up.

We were all ensigns of course, but we used to take it in turn to be squad leader on training   
missions. I was leading a group of six on a three-day survival course in New Zealand. It was   
a lovely location; reminded me of Yorkshire, only bigger, and emptier. We were living off   
the land, but to be honest, it wasn't all that arduous a task â€“ not like the Australian desert   
training. We weren't eating grubs and fending off poisonous spiders in New Zealand.

The last afternoon, we were headed down a steep valley, through trees, with a scrubby slope   
down to a river on our left. I suppose we were all anticipating a hot shower, a hot meal, and   
no doubt in some cases, a hot date. Whatever, we probably weren't giving the trail all the   
attention we should have â€“ I don't care what anyone says, it's difficult to treat a training   
exercise as seriously as the real thing; knowing no one is trying to kill you takes the edge off.

I was point, about ten metres in front of the group, and we were supposed to be on   
'communications silence' so when I heard the yell my first reaction was annoyance. I jogged   
back to find them spread out down the slope, and one of them, Ken Masters, in the water. At   
first I thought they were fooling around; I even started to tear a strip off them for messing   
with my mission. Then I realised that Masters was, as they say, drowning not waving.

I hared down the slope, shouting to the comm operator to get help â€“ that's another thing   
about training, help is only a comm call away, thank the gods. 

Two of the others were about to go in the water, but the current was strong and Masters was   
too far away from the bank to be grabbed. A short distance downstream the bank curved,   
and it looked as if the water swirled into a tiny bay. Shouting orders, and not waiting to see   
if they were obeyed, I ran down the bank and waded into the pool. The undertow was   
stronger than I'd anticipated and almost immediately I was pulled under. For once panic   
worked in my favour and a few desperate strokes saw me back on the surface and, as luck   
would have it, within arm's reach of Masters as the river thrust him in my direction. 

I grabbed at his uniform, and managed to get him in a recovery hold, but he was half-  
drowned and frightened and his thrashing would have taken both of us under if a couple of   
the others hadn't arrived to help.

I failed that course. Not because of Masters' fall, but because of my reaction to it.   
Commander Addison said I should consider myself lucky she didn't put me on report for   
losing control of the situation; that diving in at the deep end was not the way to run a   
mission. I never did work out if she meant that to be funny, but either way, it was a lesson I   
learned well.

At least I thought I had.

 

It was a simple, straightforward away mission. I was only there because Captain Archer   
thought it would be nice for Trip and me to have some time together. He didn't say that, of   
course, but I know that's what he was thinking. Missions where we might expect danger, I   
have to fight to get him to take a security officer along, but a pre-organised shopping trip to a   
friendly planet and he assigns the head of security to accompany the chief engineer? No way   
was that not a blatant excuse to let Trip, who had to go, take his boyfriend along with him. I   
was irritated by it, and let it show; but once we were alone in the shuttlepod I was happy to   
let Trip smooth my ruffled feathers.

The parts we'd come for were stored in a waterfront warehouse. Trip wandered down the   
dock to get a closer look at a speedboat moored there while I waited with the T'Kanti trader   
for the fragile pieces to be packed. 

I heard a noise behind me and turned towards it. Then the trader shouted and pushed me   
hard to one side. I never did find out if he was trying to protect me from danger, or to push   
me in the water, but the outcome was that I nearly went over the edge of the dock. Only a   
desperate grab at a mooring post saved me. I was still scrambling to my feet, whilst freeing   
my phase pistol from its concealed holster, when I heard the shots, followed by a splash. As   
soon as I was securely on the dock again, I saw the gunman, and took him down with my   
first shot. Suddenly there were T'Kanti police everywhere, and the trader was fussing around   
me, full of incoherent apologies. I looked around for Trip, but couldn't see him. That's when   
I remembered the splash.

Shaking off the anxious trader, I ran to the end of the dock. The water was dark blue, but   
not as dark as Trip's wet uniform. He was floating face-down, unmoving save for the soft   
swell of the waves. Without stopping to think, I dropped my pistol and dove in. I don't   
think I took a breath until I'd turned him over and checked for a pulse. My fingers were   
shaking so badly that for a heart-stopping moment they were all I could feel, then there it   
was, a slow steady beat. I gulped in a breath, half fear, half relief, and set out towing him to   
the dock where willing hands were waiting to pull us both out of the water.

The trader was still apologising, but I brushed him aside; I knew Trip's heart was still beating,   
but I'd had no chance to check his breathing. As I dropped to my knees alongside him, he   
coughed â€“ possibly the most welcome sound I'd ever heard. I lifted him to make it easier for   
him to get rid of the water he'd swallowed and inhaled, and his groan reminded me of the   
reason he was in the water in the first place; he'd been shot. With one hand still supporting   
Trip, I managed to get my communicator out of my sleeve pocket, only to find it water-  
logged. 

I knelt on the tarred wood, my lover half-drowned and bleeding in my arms, a broken   
communicator in my hand, and my mind refused to work; I couldn't think what to do. How   
long I would have remained like that I don't know, but the trader was at my side again, and   
this time he was telling me something I wanted to hear. They had contacted Enterprise, and   
told them what had happened.

It was the captain's voice that brought me to my senses again. He wanted to send Phlox   
down with Travis, but I convinced him it would be quicker for me to fly Trip back; for the   
first time cursing the atmospherics that had made a shuttle journey, rather than the   
transporter, a necessity for this mission.

 

And now here we were, the captain and I, in the shuttlepod, waiting. 

 

'Malcolm, are you all right?'

So lost am I in memories that it takes a minute to realise the voice is real. I think about the   
question for what seems like a long time before I answer.

'No.'

The captain puts a hand on my arm, and I want to pull away, to shout at him to stop â€“ don't   
touch me; don't be nice or understanding or sympathetic, because if you are I'll fall apart.   
And I can't fall apart now, I have to be strong for Trip, because that's the only thing I can do   
for him.

But before either of us can do or say anything there are footsteps in the shuttlebay, and Phlox   
appears in the hatchway.

'Captain,' Phlox says.

Then he looks at me, and his face is serious, his eyes concerned, worried, and, dear god,   
sympathetic.

'Mister Reed.'

I think I've stopped breathing, but I'm so numb I can't tell. I hear someone whimper, not sure   
if it's me or the captain; I feel light-headed and the grey interior of the shuttle begins to bleed   
into a deeper, overwhelming greyness.

'Oh dear, I think I'm giving the wrong impression.'

The statement makes no sense, but at least the voice anchors me a little, so that when Phlox   
continues I do understand his words.

'Commander Tucker is out of danger.'

'He's okay?'

That's the captain; I can't seem to make my mouth work.

'Yes,' Phlox confirms. 'He's resting comfortably. Or at least he will be once he's sure   
Lieutenant Reed is all right.'

'Did you hear that, Malcolm? Trip is okay.'

I'm still sitting like a rock, unable to make myself move. The captain puts a hand on my face   
and turns my head so that I'm looking at him.

'Malcolm?' he says, and that's all it takes.

I don't know how it happens, but I'm in Archer's arms, and he's rocking me back and forth.   
I'm crying, and shaking, either from cold or shock. The captain is stroking my salt-sticky hair   
and murmuring over and over, 'It's all right, Trip's all right'. I don't know if he's saying it for   
my benefit or for his, but it doesn't matter; we hold and comfort each other, water from my   
uniform no doubt chilling him as the heat from his body finally brings some warmth to mine.

Phlox clears his throat. 

Archer straightens up and pulls away from me slightly, but leaves an arm around my   
shoulders. He sniffs, and then says, 'Come on, Malcolm, let's go see Trip.' As he helps me to   
my feet he adds, 'I expect Phlox would like to check you over too.'

I finally manage to make my mouth work.

'I'm fine,' I say automatically. Then suddenly I want to laugh, and even I can hear the trace   
of hysteria in my voice as I say, 'No harm done.'

 

\--end--


End file.
